


We Go Back (And Try to Go Forward)

by fliipwizard



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Fix-It, Future NSFW content, Graphic Description of Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Myra Isn't a Good Person, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier's Internalized Homophobia, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Stanley Uris Lives, mental health recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fliipwizard/pseuds/fliipwizard
Summary: Richie couldn’t speak for the others, but he was about two seconds from a nervous break at any given time. Pile on the flood of memories, the trauma from both the clown and the hometown bullies, talking to cops when all he wanted to do was stare at Eddie’s face, the constant worry for his best friend’s health… Richie was straight-up not having a good time.My take on a fix-it. Ft. Losers Hospital Sleepover Party Extravaganza, Losers Club Cuddle Piles, And They Were Roommates (Oh My God They Were Roommates), and The Inherent Homoeroticism of Applying Each Other's Sunscreen.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	1. Losers Hospital Sleepover Party Extravaganza, Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea how many chapters there's gonna be or how long this will be and i have the vaguest idea of a plot so buckle up yall. rock n' roll buckaroo

A crick in his neck, lower back pain, a headache, and both legs asleep. Richie woke up like this in Eddie’s hospital room, sharing a one-person cot with Bev because they fought over it and neither won. His right arm was twisted behind his back so Bill, sprawled on the floor with Ben, could keep hold of his hand. Mike commandeered the armchair but slept with Stan’s head in his lap from where the other was sitting on the floor. And Eddie, deep in pain-killer-induced sleep, laid in his hospital bed.

Richie wouldn’t be getting much sleep if it weren’t for the sleeping pills prescribed to him in the ER visit directly after Neibolt. As it was, he wasn’t getting much due to the ever-shifting sleeping positions he rotated with the rest of the Losers. They definitely weren’t teenagers anymore and sleeping anywhere but a real bed wasn’t the best for their bodies. But bless the Derry hospital nurses who let them all crowd into Eddie’s room, because none of them wanted to go back to the townhouse. To sleep, anyway. They didn’t have enough room in the hospital to store all their shit. So during the day, they took turns traveling back in pairs to shower, get food, change, scrounge for something to do while they waited for Eddie.

Physically, most of them were okay. They got patched up and did rounds in the psychiatry office in the other wing. Eddie, on the other hand, was going to be in inpatient for a while. A punctured lung, tissue damage, wound healing. Richie spent a considerable amount of time not looking at Eddie’s chest where a needle was helping him restore function to his right lung. He woke up occasionally, incoherent, only to look around, panic, and fall back asleep as the IV drip pulled him under.

Mentally, Richie couldn’t speak for the others, but he was about two seconds from a nervous break at any given time. Pile on the flood of memories, the trauma from both the clown and the hometown bullies, talking to cops when all he wanted to do was stare at Eddie’s face, the constant worry for his best friend’s health… Richie was straight-up not having a good time. He spent a large majority of his day waiting for Eddie to wake up for real, only leaving to shower and eat when one of the others physically pulled him out of the room. He couldn’t help but think that Eddie was going to be gone when he got back; that as soon as he took his eyes off him, their whole hospital trip would cease and he’d have to face the realization that they left Eddie to rot under Neibolt. That his friends had dragged him kicking and screaming out of the house, not even letting Richie stay down there, into a world without his best friend and without meaning.

And then because he definitely had ADHD, something triggered in him upon thinking the word “meaning” and his brain supplied him with the last few chords of “Superheroes” from Rocky Horror and he hummed it out loud, causing Bev to stir next to him.

“The fuck are you singing about, Rich?” she mumbled, looking up at him with lidded eyes pulled into a half-hearted glare.

“Nothing. Just having racing thoughts. Can’t tell if it’s the anxiety or the ADHD, probably both.”

Bev shifted, grabbing her phone from underneath Richie’s arm and wincing at the screen’s brightness. “Vine can solve this.” She cuddled back up, laying her head on Richie’s shoulder so she could hold the phone up above their heads.

The first video played at max volume. Richie, having never grown into his limbs, startled and promptly fell off the cot and directly on top of Bill. Then Bill shouted awake, waking Ben, and Ben’s foot shot out and reached Stan’s leg. Finally, Stan moving his head to see what was going on woke Mike, who instinctively started petting Stan’s hair to calm him.

It took a record-breaking ten seconds for everyone to realize what had happened and burst into laughter.

Bev, finally pausing her Vine feed, snorted and leaned over to push Richie’s shoulder. “Nice going, Trashmouth.”

Richie had since rolled off Bill for the most part, but their legs remained tangled in a heap. “You’re the one that pulled out your phone!”

“I think Richie st-arted the chain r-reaction,” Bill yawned and stretched, knocking Richie’s glasses out if the way.

“Oh, come on!” Richie complained. “Can’t have shit in Detroit!”

“Too bad we’re not in Detroit, we’re in Derry.” Mike stretched also, letting Stan up from his lap.

“Don’t fucking remind me,” Stan groaned, sitting up completely.

“Good morning to y’all too,” Ben muttered.

Richie had finally managed to grab his glasses “Benvolio you can’t go sexy cowboy on me right now. My morning wood can’t handle it.” Unfortunately, glasses didn’t help him dodge the slap from Bev.

“You don’t have morning wood, asshole. I would’ve felt it.”

“You’re right, my dick is too huge for you to not have felt every in-“

Everyone stopped at an annoyed moan from Eddie’s bed. Richie sucked in a breath and looked toward him. Eddie’s brows were drawn up in a pained expression for a few moments before he conked out again and regained his blank, sleeping face.

And then Ben laughed, quietly, but obviously. “He beep-beeped you in his sleep, Richie.”

Richie rolled his eyes and tuned out as everyone began standing, stretching, and making the day’s plan. Richie and Bev were on coffee and breakfast duty since they’d slept in the easiest place. This also meant that they were the first to leave of the morning. It dawned on Richie all too late and he froze up, stubbornly staying in his seat next to Eddie’s bed until Bev took his hand, gave him a Look, and pulled him out the door.

His hand remained in hers until they reached his car. He hoped she wouldn’t comment on how they were shaking, how his breath had gone just slightly shallow, and how he’d run right into his bright red car.

Of course, it was not about to be left alone. “He’s going to be there when we get back, Richie. He’s alive. He’s going to stay that way. We’ll be back in less than an hour and you can see for yourself.”

“Stop reading my mind. How come I didn’t get cool powers from staring at those fucking orbs?” He plopped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition.

Bev climbed in and shrugged. “Because I’m inherently cooler than you and always have been. Now drive. I wanna see just how shitty the gas station coffee can get this morning.”


	2. The Time Richie Got Scurvy and Other Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They argue about cereal, Eddie makes a conscious appearance, chicken nuggets are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i continue to not proofread or revise my chapters, just write and post. i wrote most of this listening to the reddie playlist i made and crying.
> 
> p.s. does anyone know of a clowntown discord server bc i am Desperate for some fandom interactions but im so bad at twitter

“But you can’t deny the complexity of a Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” Bev said, laying across Ben’s lap in the hospital room armchair.

“Literally all I’m saying is that Cap’n Crunch is the best cereal and I would eat only that if I could,” Richie replied. He was seated on a folding chair near the head of Eddie’s bed. “Actually, I could. I’ve done it. It was the best decision of my life. Besides the fact that I got scurvy.”

Ben snorted. “Jesus, Richie. I haven’t even had that stuff since… I can’t remember.”

Bev gasped, clasping Ben’s head between her hands. “Do you mean you haven’t had sugary cereal in so long you forgot how it tastes?” Ben shrugged, and Bev launched off his lap towards the door. “Holy shit! I bet the grocery store has those little boxes. Y’know, the ones that hold like, half a cup of cereal?”

“Are we just gonna ignore how Richie admitted to getting literal scurvy or do I just have to sit with that realization?” Mike said from his spot on the cot. He was using it like a couch with Stan and Bill. All three of them had books. Fuckin’ nerds.

“So the only vitamin C I got was from the cheap margarita mix and tequila I drank in college. Sue me!”

“I  _ will _ sue you for emotional damage. How the fuck have you survived this long?” Stan asked.

“Sheer dumb luck. And the support from all the girls who would be devastated if I died and they couldn’t suck my dick.”

Bill made a face. “Beep beep, Richie.”

“Every time. A man can’t talk about his magnum dong amongst his closest friends. Devastating, truly.”

The room was quiet enough (thanks, hospital) that they could all hear Eddie’s raspy voice. “We all know you use finger cots for condoms, asshole.”

For the second time in two days, Richie found himself sprawled across the tile floor. “Ah fuck! Shit! Eddie, what the fuck?”

Bev, now no longer in the middle of finding her keys to get cereal, bolted towards the bed instead. “Eddie! You’re lucid!”

All the Losers who could stand gathered around the bed, where Eddie was blinking tiredly but sporting a small smile. “And if it weren’t for you guys and the painkillers I would be 10 feet deep in a panic attack.”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie, don’t scare us like that again,” Mike said as he brushed aside some stray hairs from Eddie’s forehead.

“We’ve all ha-ad enough scary shit happen in o-our lives.” Bill pressed his fist to Eddie’s shoulder, nudging him. “We sh-hould probably get the n-n-urse, though.”

The general consensus of the room shifted to getting Eddie’s nurse and making sure he was as comfortable as he could be. Meanwhile, Richie regained his position in the folding chair. His eyes swam but he wouldn’t let the tears fall. Not yet, not while Eddie was awake. Not while Eddie could see him and possibly get upset.

He wasn’t sure exactly how he expected Eddie to get upset. Part of him hoped it would be to see Richie cry, to feel sad that Richie was so affected. That part hoped that Eddie had any sympathy left for the man who sobbed over his lifeless form and held his hand as they waited for the ambulance. That wasn’t something you did for just a friend, Richie thought. That was something embarrassing. It was weak, vulnerable, exposing.

No, Richie knew that as soon as Eddie saw him crumble, he’d get upset that the others let him stay there. That Richie had the gall to cry when Eddie was the one really hurting. And that Richie could even show his face around him when he was so obviously feeling something non-platonic.

So much for best friends.

Richie did what he learned in the 27 years away. He put on a brave face and pretended he wasn’t who he was. It was just acting. He was just playing the goofy friend again. He’d played the role a thousand times, what was a few thousand more?

The nurse puttered around the bed for a while until the painkillers pulled Eddie back under. Stan took back the cot for a nap. Bill and Bev decided to get some celebratory chicken nuggets. Ben and Mike swapped phones for photos and memories. Richie sat, staring at his phone like he was doing something.

He did, eventually, text Steve a half-assed apology. Included a note to not call him because he was in a hospital room with two sleeping men. He was rewarded with around ten furious texts back, ranging from chewing him out for leaving so soon and panicked questioning about him being in a hospital. He could only give the most cursory replies, saying he was fine (not really but whatever), he was sorry for leaving on such short notice (again, not really), and he would be back on the road as soon as he could.

The thought of leaving made him sick. As much as he hated it here, with all the shitty memories and trauma associated with the town, he couldn’t swallow the lump that formed when he realized he would lose his friends again. He didn’t expect any of them to keep in touch, not really. He could put up a facade just as much as they could. They’d already made a group text, but those always died out, didn’t they? And they’d already talked about meeting up with Stan’s wife, hosting Mike on his travels, but adult plans like this always fell through.

He thought of not that long ago, a bag slung over his shoulder and shouting up the steps of the townhouse,  _ “Eduardo, ándale!” _ If only he left then, taking Eddie with him out of this shithole. He didn’t know about his apparent inevitable death as foretold by Bev. He could’ve lived in blissful ignorance, forgotten all about the clown and the town and the hell that was his childhood.

Forgetting the Losers again would hurt, deeply. Forgetting Eddie again would rend his soul apart into even more pieces. But he would survive, somehow. At least until whatever was coming for him caught up.

He thought maybe it would be worse now, as impossible as that sounded. Now that he knew he’d belonged, once. That he’d loved people and was loved back, once. And he had to live with it, knowing that Eddie would go back to his wife. Bev and Ben would shack up, probably find a cute picket-fence house and adopt 2.5 kids. Stan would continue his rose-colored existence, Mike would see the world, and Bill would write more movies for his wife to star in.

And Richie would go back to being a washed up, C-list comedian with a drinking problem and a permanent five-o-clock shadow.

He booked his flight back to LA as Bev and Bill came back with their spoils.

“I come bearing chicken and dipping sauces!” Bev mock-yelled into the room. She held two McDonalds bags while Bill held another two. “We bought out the whole stock of nuggets. I’m sorry to all the kids who won’t get any in their happy meals.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to buy out all the chicken nuggets from McDonalds but okay,” Richie shrugged. “Toss me a bag. I wanna get lost in the McFreakin sauce.”

“Rich, I know we’re not kids anymore, but your use of memes is offensive even to me.” Ben had taken some bags from Bill and was rifling through them. “I thought you were the comedian.”

“Everybody’s a fuckin’ critic. Tell it to my ghostwriter, Haystack.”

Stan, now indulging in his own box of nuggets and honey (by his request), gave Richie a pointed look. “You’ll fire that ghostwriter now that you can actually be yourself, right?”

Richie froze, nugget half in his mouth. Stan always read him like one of his ornithology books, like he was full of diagrams that pointed out exactly what Richie was on the inside. Fig. 1, Tozier’s secret shames. “And actually work for once? If I’m writing my own shit, I can’t tan my taint on my back porch anymore.”

“Please don’t tell me you do that, holy shit,” Bev said at the same time that Ben wrinkled his nose and exclaimed, “In front of my nuggets, dude?”

“Instagram said it’s good for you. No one lies on the Internet.”

“You haven’t grown any brain cells since we were kids. Amazing.” Richie took that as Stan dropping the subject, which he appreciated.

He cleared his throat. “So, my manager wants me back ASAP. I’m still technically on tour, y’know? I booked a flight for tomorrow morning.”

“Wait, Richie, you’re gonna leave? What about Eddie?” Mike said after swallowing a bite of chicken nugget.

Richie sighed, running his hand through his (admittedly, greasy) hair. “I’m sorry, but my career’s riding on this tour. If I cancel another show and refund all those tickets, I’m gonna be in the fuckin’ weeds.”

He was grateful when Bill spoke up. “I underst-hand, Richie. Au-Audr-a and the cast and cr-ew of my movie are waiting on m-m-me, too.” He looked towards Eddie, still sleeping. “I have more l-lee-way, so I can st-hay here.”

Stan, still doing the freaky thing and reading Richie’s entire soul, gave him another look. Worse, this time. Sympathetic. “We’ll keep you updated, Rich. Eddie’s gonna be upset that you’re gone, though.”

Richie was no longer making eye contact, pretending to clean his glasses even though he was really just smudging nugget grease all over them. “‘S fine, I think he’d be glad to not have my loud ass interrupting his beauty rest.”

He didn’t have his glasses on to see his friends’ faces as the room went silent. He was already determined; get the fuck out of Derry, bullshit his way through the rest of his tour, pretend to not notice the metaphorical gaping hole in his chest that he now realized was missing his friends. Keep a good image. Recite jokes about getting off to his non-existent ex-girlfriend. Don’t think about it.

He continued to not think about it. Eddie only woke again when Richie wasn’t in the room. By the time his bag was packed and his car was parked in front of the hospital so the other Losers could wish him goodbye, he hadn’t said another word to Eddie in his bed. They had a big group hug despite all the people staring at six grown-ass adults crying on the sidewalk. He promised to text the group chat when he landed, got in the fuck-off red car he rented, and drove.

If he felt sick on the plane, it was definitely only airsickness. It wasn’t his stomach dropping out from under him when he realized he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter @fliipwizard, tumblr @ghxsttype, kudos and comments appreciated!!


	3. Richard Tozier Takes a Dip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: alcoholism, internalized homophobia, general richie angst
> 
> i promise it gets better

He forgot to text the group chat until Stan had called him five times, six voices crowding through the line, heaving relieved sighs that he was alright. He felt awful just at that but it was Eddie’s voice and quiet, pained sob that pushed him over the edge. They explained that Eddie woke up asking for him, because he knew Richie had landed in LA and promised to call. They told him that Eddie grew increasingly frantic the more Stan called him and he didn’t answer. Eddie, himself, gave a wobbly apology and blamed the painkillers. Richie almost broke then and there. He apologized profusely, reassured them that he was home safe and did not forget anyone, and hung his head to cry when they hung up.

Then, he forgot to be Richie Tozier.

At least, while he was home. Over the phone, through text, on video calls, and in person, he did his best to be the same Trashmouth that people expected of him. He cracked jokes for the chucks. He was loud and obnoxious and ran his mouth about everything. He even went back to public appearances, first on a talk show to explain his sudden disappearance. Then, in a few local shows to smooth things over. Then, a West Coast mini tour. He posted on his social media, randomly chose fans to quote retweet and comment on, pretended to not know how to use Snapchat.

And he got the booze delivered to his house instead of going to the physical liquor store, just in case the paps were watching.

He supposed drinking himself stupid was a cliche coping mechanism. He’d already been down that road several times. Once in college to hide from the accusations that he was a fairy. It didn’t help that college was also where he learned he couldn’t focus for shit and flunked, flushing his self control down the drain with the dregs of his short academic career. Again as he tried to gain footing in comedy, downing liquid courage to go on stage and smothering memories of bad performances. He relapsed just as he was gaining momentum. Steve had to peel him off the tile of his bathroom and throw him, clothes and all, into lots of icy showers.

You could say Richie Tozier was a veteran alcoholic. And veterans knew how to not get caught.

And this time he had something really fucking shitty to forget about. To make himself pass out over instead of fall asleep normally. To take a shot every time he thought he heard a grating melody and awful, deep voice. To paper over the memories, the nightmares, the panic attacks. They still seeped through like cigarette tar over cheap wallpaper, but he could at least pretend he was managing it.

He tried forgetting the good, too, drinking straight from the bottom-shelf whiskey when he felt himself getting nostalgic. The time he went on a “double movie date” with Bev and Ben, snickering about werewolves and practicing yoyo tricks. Half listening to Stan talk about birds for an hour, just letting him have space to be excited about something. Hitching rides on Bill’s bike when he forgot his. Making it his personal goal to get Mike to laugh as many times as he could. Eddie, pushing each other clean out of the hammock and the swing and tree branches and off chairs and steps and perches.

Eddie.

He needed to get over Eddie.

Tinder was out of the question. He tried a few times to look in bars, chugging a Long Island iced tea or two or three before approaching this guy who only recognized him from TV and shuffled away, muttering about not really getting “the straights” and their comedy. He quite literally kicked himself tripping over his own feet on the way to ask the bartender to make a strong, extremely strong, Jack and Coke and close out his tab.

He stuck to the Internet where anonymity was his friend and there were infinite videos of cute brunette twinks in all sorts of fascinating positions. Tried looking at their partners and picturing himself until he inevitably caught his reflection in his dark phone screen and succumbed to the shame.

Besides, if he drank enough, he wouldn’t be able to get it up anyway. Win-win. Whiskey dick saves the day (and the hours of laying awake listening to his own self ridiculing him for looking at men like that, for being a heathen, for being the lowest of the low looking for porn stars that looked like his best friend, for even thinking about Eddie and his dick in the same context).

In the morning, he tossed his clothes, picked up the nearest ones that smelled okay, whipped up an Irish coffee and always ended up drinking at least three, ran dry shampoo and fingers through his hair, smiled at himself in the mirror until he was distracted from the eye bags and pale skin and sallow cheeks. If past Richie was nice, he’d even have a bagel or two on the counter somewhere. Those don’t even need dishes if you eat them plain.

His phone blew up one morning, right in the middle of playing a game of “which shirt has the least takeout stains.” He sighed, scratched his neck, and answered.

“Mikey, you really gotta stop cold calling me like this. I almost blew chunks into my coffee, the nerves!”

“That’s disgusting and it was  _ one _ time. No bad news this round, I promise.”

Richie paced to the kitchen, sipped his coffee, winced at the double bitter punch. “I’ll hold you to it.”

He heard Mike snort on the other end of the line. “If you kept up with the group chat, I wouldn’t need to call you. Losers reunion time, Rich. Three weeks from now, at Ben and Bev’s new place. You coming or not?”

“Oh, shit, yeah, of course. Sorry, man, I’ve got a lot-“

“Don’t worry about it. We’re all busy.”

“Yadda, yadda. Adults. Why the fuck did we decide to get old, anyway?”

Mike laughed, and Richie added it to the area of his brain he devoted to tallying the times he got to cause that. He only just remembered it existed and it needed filling with a new high score. “Beats me, dude. Just let Ben know when you’ll get there. He’s really taken to party planning.”

“Talented-ass friends. Got it, will do, I am adding five reminders to my phone as we speak.” He was, truly, because his last and only psychiatrist was in Derry after the whole ordeal and had only given him something to knock him out. He ran out of those fast and didn’t have the diagnosis or meds to balance the ADHD. He figured his addictive personality turned off the possibility, anyway.

“Good. We already worked out a schedule of calling you to keep you on track with this so we don’t end up one Loser down.” There was a faint but unmistakable monotone voice of an airport announcement in the background. “Shit. I gotta go, Rich. I’m on my way to the Pacific Northwest. It was nice talking to you, though. Stop being such a stranger, okay?”

Richie nodded despite it not making sense because phone calls. “Yeah, if you guys call me I guess I can’t pretend I’m knee deep in a seedy Hollywood party and can’t talk because I’m getting head. Or can I?” He was about to make some choice noises before Mike cut him off.

“Don’t even. Remember to book your flight. Love you, Rich.”

It took a long, long moment for Richie to respond, “Same to you, Mikey,” before hanging up.

It was something most of them were saying since Derry 2.0. Adults with better emotional control and realizing that platonic affection was okay and greatly needed for their particular group. He’d spent hours thinking about the hospital, squished in with everyone and not thinking twice about holding hands, hugging, sitting in laps, spooning on the cot. He honestly didn’t expect it to continue past then. When all the immediate trauma response was over, he expected everyone to be embarrassed, return to formalities and niceties. He never wanted to, but he’d resigned himself to that fate long before he left.

It was jarring, to say the least.

But he booked his flight before calling an Uber to head to whatever address Steve sent him last night, and he steeled himself for his friends realizing how weird he was in person again. Without the murder clown, this time.

* * *

Richie wasn’t so great with planes, so he made liberal use of the in-flight drink menu. That meant he needed to get up and piss more often than he sat in his seat, but he had first class seats. He was golden, pun intended.

It had the added bonus of slowing his racing heart, though it did nothing for his bouncing leg. But his leg never stopped once he sat down. He needed to be moving at all times. Like a shark. Except he wasn’t a badass predator, he was a middle-aged man with untreated ADHD.

Landing went smoothly, if you counted Richie bolting upright from where he fell asleep holding the in-flight magazine and shouting because his body thought he was falling, “smoothly.” It didn’t matter either way because he bolted as soon as he could to avoid anyone on the plane recognizing Richie Tozier, comedian and the man who screamed, “Oh fuck!” as the plane began to descend.

He was just about to start looking for his welcome wagon when he was absolutely fucking bodyslammed from the side, tripping over his small carryon and crashing to the floor.

“Expect the unexpected, loser!” Bev yelled in his face when he finally realized what was going on. She had a huge smile, framed by her red hair, grown a little longer since he’d last seen her.

“Shit, Bev. Did you plan on growing out your hair or is the awkward ‘I used to have a pixie’ look your new thing?”

She snorted and shoved at his shoulder before getting up and grabbing his hand. “I’m not the only one around here that needs a haircut, Shaggy. Also, didn’t your hair used to be curly? What happened to that? You were so cute.”

Richie ran his hands through his, admittedly, long and kinda greasy hair. “We can’t all grow up to be drop-dead gorgeous, Marsh.”

“Oh, shut up,” came a voice to Richie’s left. He turned to see Eddie, polo untucked and hair not so gelled but still wearing a damn fanny pack. “Stop trying to compliment your way outta shit, Tozier.”

Last time Richie saw Eddie in person, he was pale and clammy, tied up to tubes upon twisting tubes and wires and any number of sensors. He was barely functioning on his own. He’d only just woken up. Richie’s heart had faltered and he’d chickened out. He booked a flight and left before Eddie could see how desperately Richie was pining for him now that the trauma had wiped away his carefully crafted Trashmouth schtick. 

Last time, Eddie wasn’t able to sit up on his own, let alone walk. This Eddie standing in front of him, though, was floating. That was probably Richie’s gay thoughts exaggerating things, though. A while ago, Eddie updated the Losers group chat with a picture of a cane, “foldable to be portable, but highly rated and sturdy.” It was matte grey, a wrist strap around the top and ergonomic handle. There was an anti-slip cover on the bottom. The Eddie in front of him walked with that cane, leaning on it and cocking his hip in its direction when he stood still. His hand fiddled with the wrist strap.

Richie needed to keep his eyes off Eddie’s slim hips or he was gonna lose his entire shit in the middle of the airport.

“Eddie Spaghetti! Long time no see, bud.”

“‘Bud’? What are you, Minnesotan?”

It must’ve dawned on Eddie that he made a huge mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. “Oh, you betcha, pal! I been goin’ up north for them good fishin’ spots, don’tcha know?” As Richie put on his worst Minnesota Voice, he bit the bullet and pulled Eddie into a side hug, doing the customary bro noogie for added safety. And he noticed that Eddie didn’t frantically grab for antibacterial hand sanitizer and yell about airplane illnesses, so he figured that some time between Richie’s family vacations when they were kids and now, Eddie had worked that out. Good for him.

“That’s somehow worse than last time. Why did I not expect this?” Eddie did fix his hair, but he wasn’t as meticulous with it as he was before.

“Aw, Eds, I’m honored that you hold me to such high expectations. I’ll make sure next time to do it extra good, just for you.” He had to physically tense to keep himself from thinking of telling Eddie he’d be good in a much different context, one where all Richie had to do was do what he was told and-

“At least ‘Eds’ is better than ‘Spaghetti,’ I guess,” Eddie interrupted his train of thought.

God bless ADHD brain, stopping the absolute trainwreck to move to a different one. “Oh fuck. That’s great. Eddie, you just gave me the best idea.”

Eddie preemptively winced and Bev said, “Oh shit,” quietly and with feeling.

“Spageds, Spagh- we gotta get Eduardo in there too, right? Spaghedu- yes! Spagheduardo!” Richie relished in the absolutely pain-stricken look on both Eddie and Bev’s faces. “Thanks, I’ll be here all week. Literally! I thought we were gonna see your new fancy digs? That video tour didn’t do it justice. I want to  _ feel  _ the minimalism in my soul.”

Bev slapped Richie’s hand away as he reached for his suitcase. She fixed him with a glare, too, as she took it herself. “We’ve decorated a whole lot since then, Rich. That was literally the day we moved in.”

And she was right. The house was close enough to a city to not be in a rural area but far enough away that their neighbors weren’t quite next door. And the interior had become a homey mix of thrifted decor (“grandma chic,” described Bev) and both the occupant’s work lives spilling out of their respective offices. Richie counted five dress forms in the living room and too many rolled up plans from Ben’s desk to begin to comprehend.

And their dog, Poppy, who was so excited to greet her new friend that her tail wagging shook her entire body.

Richie physically felt the need to raise his voice comically higher than it already was. “Hi, girl! What a pretty, good doggy!” Poppy wasn’t a dog to bowl people over, so Richie did it for her and planted himself directly in front of the door so he could be smothered. “Bev, I’m stealing your dog. She’s mine now.”

“I already called dibs,” said Mike, entering from what must’ve been the kitchen with a glass of water. He looked worlds better than when Richie saw him in Derry. His eyes had lost most of their frantic and exhausted appearance. He was absolutely beaming. Richie figured finally leaving Maine was having the desired effect; Mike was thriving. And he had his arm around Bill’s shoulders.

Bill also looked better, though more incrementally than Mike. He still looked tired and nearly perpetually sad, but his smile was brighter and he looked more put together. “Fuck you, Mike. I was he-here before you. I called di-ibs first!”

“Honey, we can’t keep a dog. We’re on the road too much.” Richie had only met Audra a handful of times, the most significant of which was when he participated in a mass group call to help explain their collective trauma to her and Patty. He wasn’t sure how she managed to stay so calm and believe them so quickly, but she had spent a lot of the call holding Bill close and petting his hair. Mike was staying with them, too, on his trip around the world. She’d taken him under her other arm and traced circles into his shoulder. Richie had then said that the women of the group held the whole thing together like extremely smart, strong, emotionally intelligent glue. It got some laughs but they were still mid-trauma-reporting. Tough crowd.

“You guys can get a dog when you all move in together.” Stan was on one of the large couches, an arm draped over Patty’s shoulders, reading an ornithology book with honest-to-god reading glasses. He had a bit more distinction to his crows feet, due to the wonderful news that Patty was expecting. And then more so when they realized that she was having twins. Stan spent a lot more time smiling these days. “It’ll happen soon enough.”

Many things happened at once. Ben emerged from his office only to grab Richie’s bags from Bev (with a kiss to her cheek and a kiss to Richie’s for good measure) and lead him away to his guest room. Mike, who had been mid-drink, choked on his water and started coughing. Audra used her acting skills to look like she hadn’t been affected and was busy helping Mike. Bill stood there, frozen and flushed. Bev and Patty both howled with laughter, which was what Richie heard as he was led down the hall.

* * *

Dinner time rolled around with an uproar about what takeout should be ordered. Audra, naively, suggested Chinese, which made Eddie’s eyes widen comically as he gagged. Mike was adamant that they should get breakfast food because he was craving french toast real fuckin’ bad. Eddie was sorely opposed to breakfast-for-dinner and made his thoughts loud and clear, but didn’t offer an alternative. Ben quietly agreed to breakfast because he was in the mood for something sweet, too. Bill took the side of classic diner food because the nearest diner served breakfast and dinner 24/7. 

Sometimes, the Losers did what they do best: follow Bill.

Richie and Bev took the liberty of opening two bottles: one bubbly for most of the crew, one sparkling grape juice for Patty and Stan (who was an old man and didn’t want to drink in solidarity with his wife). Glasses were poured, takeout was passed around, and everyone sat down to talk over the movie they were supposed to be watching. Poppy, certified Good Dog, didn’t beg for scraps even once.

“‘Scuse me, gotta piss.” Richie lifted his paper box that once contained a burger and his wildly inappropriate early-2000s McDonalds Shrek cup full of sparkling wine and practically vaulted over Bill, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Bev on the floor.

“We don’t need to hear about your piss, that’s disgusting,” Eddie fired back, but Richie was already gone. He was on a mission.

He knew it would come to this point, so he snuck to buy a few mini bottles of whatever he could get his hands on while Mike and Stan picked out everything else from the liquor store. Looking at his haul now, he had a few tiny bottles of vodka, some whisky, an astonishing amount of Baileys, and the dreaded Fireball. He knocked back the Fireball and chased it with Baileys; not his best decision, but alright for a start. And then, he actually went to go piss and rejoin the crowd.

He accepted another glass of sparkling wine while the faded and chipped image of Shrek stared into his soul. Richie figured he’d understand. Whatever that meant.

“Okay so what I don’t understand is why Bella doesn’t just fucking flip when she realized Edward watches her sleep every single night?” Eddie was on a rampage, since someone had brought his attention back to the movie. “That’s so fucking creepy! And Edward should know better! This guy’s fucking 100 years old or some shit, he’s gotta know something about boundaries, right?”

Bill shrugged. “I mean, he’s ha-ad a long time to fuh-forget about boundaries, ma-aybe?”

“Bullshit. Bull-fucking- _ shit _ , Bill!” Eddie now looked ready to throw anything, but the only thing he held was an empty champagne glass (a real one, he had refused novelty cups), and he seemed to have reservations about breaking Bev and Ben’s glassware.

“I watch Au-Audra, sometimes.” The statement hung in the air for a moment after Bill said it. He seemed to steel himself, looking to Audra and then to Mike and then at everyone else. “It- I c-an’t- the fuh-hucking nightmares. It’s easier to wh-watch Audra th-an to sleep.”

“I get them, too,” said Mike. He was sitting on the couch with Stan and Patty. “I wish I had something to do besides stare at my phone and hope they go away.”

“You guys know I’ve had them for years,” Bev said, now fully sitting against Bill. “Since that first time. Since the deadlights.”

Ben reached down to run his fingers through Bev’s hair. “I see It all the time, chasing me in the Derry Public Library. Or over the bridge. Or just, in a void.”

“I wake up needing to shower, just- the fucking leper, the clown, anything. And I keep fucking scalding myself with hot water but it’s all that keeps me from thinking a knife is gonna cut through my shower curtain.”

“I get stuff about what would happen if I-” Stan had to hold his breath for a moment, Patty reaching over to put her arm around his shoulders. “If I hadn’t been there. If I’d let myself get scared so bad that I just… did it.”

A deep silence filled the room until Richie realized belatedly that it was his turn. The Baileys turned sour. “Whoops, small bladder. Gotta piss just as much as a pregnant person. Wait, shit, sorry Patty!” And he leapt over the back of the couch this time, making a beeline to his room and the whiskey he knew was there.

If he could just down something to settle his nerves, he could go back out there and face the emotions. He was mid-swallow on some Jack when he felt someone grab his arm.

“Rich, what the fuck?” It was Eddie, doe eyes wide open and staring as cheap whiskey dribbled down Richie’s chin and shirt.

Richie’s brain raced trying to think of a quip. “Didn’t you know, Eds? We’re gonna go clubbing. I’m pregaming.” He winced. Not his best by a long shot.

“What the- fucking  _ clubbing _ ? Richie? We fucking agreed to stay here and watch movies and have some fake champagne.”

“Only you would know the difference between sparkling wine and champagne from France.”

It was then that in quick succession, everyone else showed up in his room. He tried not to, but Richie couldn’t help but focus on Stan. Stan, who looked at the bottles he’d messily left on the bed (rookie fucking mistake, Tozier) before looking back up. The face he made had Richie feeling the smallest he’d ever felt; like the fucking rancid clown when they killed it. He was disappointed. Richie knew it. And Richie had never felt worse.

“Alright, you caught me red fucking handed! It’s the nightmares. I don’t get nightmares, not at least that I remember.” He kicked at the bottles in an attempt to hide them back in the backpack he’d stowed them in. “If I just keep going I won’t think about it! Or I don’t realize I thought about it because all I need to worry about is the massive fuck-off hangover I’ll have in the morning. But guess what, Irish coffees are the shit and no one cares about caffeine intake during the day and  _ that’s _ a mind-altering substance too!” His words were spilling out, now, more than he’d done since he was a kid and really couldn’t shut his face. “I just- I can’t! I’m so fucking alone all the time and you guys moved on so well after and kept going and improved your lives and I’m just fucking here, struggling to reboot my shitty comedy career with jokes that make me look like an asshole so I can appeal to the scum of the fucking earth! I can’t do it! But I fucking have to or else why did you guys work so hard to fight the clown and I’m just fucking  _ here _ !” He panted, apparently exhausting himself with a rant. New low, getting physical exertion from speaking when it was his fucking living. He stared but didn’t register his friend’s faces. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to puke my fucking guts out.”

The Red Sea that was his friend group split, not stopping him as he sprinted to the nearest toilet. He supposed, why should they? He was just the guy that ruined their vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just needed to get this over with and now we will be (mostly) uphill from here on out

**Author's Note:**

> if u wanna follow me on twitter im @fliipwizard (nsfw account, minors will be blocked) and @ghxsttype on tumblr
> 
> pls give kudos and comments make me update faster bc i love that sweet sweet validation


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